Per Sempre Tuo, Amante
by syntheticpoetry
Summary: Blaine starts seeing a psychiatrist after finally hitting bottom. (Title translation: Forever Yours, Lover)


**Author's Note: Set post The Break-Up.**

**Trigger warning in place for inferred attempted suicide.**

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"What should we start with today?" he folds his arms over his chest while she jots something down on a legal pad.

'_Let me take a guess at what you've just written… "defensive." '_

"How about an introduction?" she smiles brightly, sincerely, and he digs his nails into his biceps.

"You already know who I am and why I'm here," he tries to bite back the poison in his voice, but fails miserably. She remains unfazed; her unwavering smile is still perfectly in place.

"Why don't _you_ tell me why you're here then, Blaine," she offers, still walking the careful line of politeness. Instead he feels that she comes off as condescending and venom burbles up once more, breaching the unsteady dam that's meant to be his mouth.

"This is a waste of fucking time," he turns his attention to the wall-sized window to his left in her furnished office. He hears the scraping of pen on paper and grits his teeth.

"If you'd prefer to sit in silence until you feel more comfortable talking we can do that," the scraping of the pen stops and he wonders how long he can resist taking advantage of the presence of another human being before he remembers how good he's gotten at it over the years. "We still have forty minutes left though."

"I want to go home, I don't want to do this," he admits, voice strained and bordering on pleading.

"I know, but we have to, Blaine," she sounds apologetic, at least he hopes so, but then again why should she even care? His parents are paying her regardless. "Are you sure you don't want to talk?" she fishes, her voice hopeful.

"I have a headache," he states matter-of-factly and closes his eyes as a plane zooms across the window silently.

"Does that happen to you often? Headaches," he's inadvertently intrigued her.

_Scrape, scrape, scrape._

He wishes he could take that pen away from her, stop her from trying to dissect him with words and textbook definitions of the significance behind his actions. He keeps his eyes closed and pictures Kurt, so beautiful in a white tuxedo, cheeks flushed from laughter, but god he just looks so pristine and—

"Blaine?" he opens his eyes lazily, takes a moment to remember where he is, and slumps down in the uncomfortable leather couch he's currently being forced to occupy.

"No," he keeps his gaze focused on the world outside of the window.

"No what?" she clicks her pen once, twice, and resumes taking notes.

"About the headaches," his voice has opted to travel down the "dreary monotone" route. In truth, he hadn't been able to go one day without a headache for the past four months—ever since Kurt had left for New York— and they only worsened after his little…"transgression," followed by the confession of his tryst to Kurt two months ago. He didn't need a medical degree to deduce the cause of these headaches though, and he certainly didn't need to hear Doctor Whatsername's insight on the matter.

"Your mother says you've been depressed lately," Blaine wonders if the constant topic redirecting is a therapeutic tactic she was required master during a required class on the subject in college.

"She doesn't notice a thing," he closes his eyes again and a brief flash of his mother's panicked face floods his mind. _'Well, until it's too late.'_

"From what I can gather, she—both of your parents—care for you very much," he hears a very faint thud and guesses that she's finally set her notepad and pen down for at least a few seconds.

"They care about how what I've done reflects on them," he replies bitterly. "That's why they're doing this; that's why I'm here."

"That's not why you're here, Blaine," her voice is stern but still gentle. He knows what's coming next and he doesn't want to acknowledge it, doesn't want any part of it. Like everything else about the past four months, he wants to take it all back and shove it in a box to hide beneath his floorboards. But, like everything else, he _can't_ take it back. Any of it. "Look down at your wrists, Blaine."

He shakes his head and keeps his eyes closed.

"Blaine," she speaks in a softer tone and he's reminded of Kurt again. The scraping of her chair against the floor reverberates rather loudly considering how crowded the office is, offering little space for the sound to travel, and—instinctively—he turns his head towards the noise and opens his eyes. She's moved her chair closer to the couch; he's within her reach now. She stretches out a hand and gently places it on his arm; he tenses up and hugs both arms tighter to his torso.

"Don't touch me," he shifts his body and slides himself a few inches to the right, away from her. She draws back her hand and straightens up in her seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt.

"I'm sorry, Blaine. But the sooner you acknowledge the real reason why you're here, the sooner we can start working on helping you feel better."

Despite the circumstances, she's nice and he thinks there's a possibility he could like her—respects how adamant she is—but it doesn't change the fact that she's still a psychiatrist and he's still sitting on her couch, in her office, under her analytical spotlight.

"We'll get to the source of the problem, Blaine. Certainly not today, but we'll get to it."

This makes him laugh. Not out loud. The strangled laughter erupts in his head and a taunting voice accompanies it, _'The source of the problem? Well, that would be me. I'm what's wrong in all of this.'_

She moves her chair back to its original position behind a mahogany desk and clears her throat before picking up her pen. "Your parents told me you're involved in some sort of musical group at school?"

Blaine shrugs and scans the room for a clock. There isn't one. He does, however, discover a nameplate on her desk: _Doctor Watson_. The irony of such a name isn't lost on him.

"Your mother mentioned that you were involved in another musical group at your previous school as well. The," she sifts through her notes briefly and pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose, "Warblers. Music is very important to you, isn't it, Blaine?"

He shrugs again and begins to sing a tune in his head so that he can grasp at any sort of indication of how much time is passing between their supposedly "necessary" exchanges of dialect.

"I used to play an instrument in school," she straightens her glasses again before clasping her hands together on her desk.

'_Clarinet or flute.'_

"The clarinet, all throughout middle school and some of high school."

Blaine suppresses a smirk and relaxes his arms, still keeping them folded lazily across his chest. _'Your posture gives it away.'_

"I used to get teased for it quite a bit though," again, he knows where this conversation is going—were all therapists this predictable? "Does that happen to you?"

"Did you quit?" he asks gruffly, disregarding her question.

"What?"

"You said you played through some of high school—did you quit because you were being picked on?" his left temple pulses angrily and he fights the urge to try to massage away his headache.

"I did."

"Was it something you loved to do?" His left eye twitches once, in time with his throbbing temple.

"Yes," she sounds regrettably fond of some particular memory, "It was—"

"Then you're weak for letting them take that away from you," he shoots back aggressively. Instantly, he realizes what he's said though; this isn't him… and he hasn't been himself. For months. "I… I am so sorry—I didn't mean to—"

And she actually smiles at this, probably views it as some type of progress. "No, you're right on some level. I shouldn't have let them take it away from me, but I don't think it makes me weak," he swallows, hard, and works on trying to revert back to coming off as aloof. "I don't think it makes you weak either, Blaine. Sometimes, you're braver for knowing when to run."

He doesn't believe that. "Bullshit. That's bullshit."

"Why do you think that?" she reaches for the pad again and he narrows his eyes at it angrily. She's being paid to listen to him and even still; he'll never have her full attention if she's constantly focusing on scribbling things down. Not that he wants to really speak to her anyways, but the feeling boils over to the point where his subconscious can't help but spew out, _'You too? Nobody else listens, but this is your job.' _And, quickly, the very thought swells to the point of bursting until—

"Can you… just stop writing down everything I say?" he finds himself pleading through gritted teeth. Her arm remains outstretched, frozen; her hand hovers over the pad. A second later though, she rests her hands on her lap and looks back at him with considerate eyes. "Sorry, go ahead, Blaine."

"I don't remember what we were talking about," he lies, trying to redirect the conversation now. Only, there isn't a direction he _wants_ the conversation to go in.

"You were going to explain to me why my theory on running away is 'bullshit,' as you so eloquently put it."

He brings his right hand up to his mouth and gnaws at the nail of his index finger as she speaks. The pulsating in his temples has spread to his eye sockets and annoyingly resembles the drumbeat to some dubstep song that an unknown girl auditioned with for Glee club at the beginning of the school year. He bites down too hard, too deep, and the sharp sting in his finger brings him back to reality where things feel as though they're moving in slow motion.

"My head really hurts, I don't feel like talking anymore," he avoids her face and leans his head back on the couch, closing his eyes. "How much time do we have left?"

"About fifteen or twenty minutes."

"How can it be fifteen or twenty? That's a big difference," he pinches the bridge of his nose and clenches his eyes a little tighter.

"How about I make a deal with you?" he doesn't say anything, remains in his position of turmoil on display for her. "If you finish your explanation… we'll call it a day and you can go home."

The task of forming audible syllables and repeating them in a syncopated cadence to create words with actual meaning attached to them seemed daunting and exhausting. But if he wouldn't speak, she would continue to—neither scenario felt promising for his poor head, but at least with the first option he could try to quickly stumble over a response and then be on his way.

"It all just follows you, when you run," he should probably open his eyes and sit up, but instead he lazily drags his fingers over his forehead in an attempt to relieve some pressure. "All the problems, all the fears—that all stays the same. You just kid yourself into thinking your environment has something to do with it, and it doesn't."

He pauses, expects her to interrupt him and argue. She doesn't.

"So you're not a stronger person for it. You're still the same coward searching for new ways to conceal yourself from the world. It's like playing a game of hide-and-seek, you know? And all you're doing is going from hiding-spot to hiding-spot, too afraid to make any real attempt to run to home base. Instead, you're the one that ends up getting caught and having to shout that stupid 'Ollie ollie oxen free' phrase to let everyone know just how much you suck and that the rest of them are safe because you were too scared to try to win."

By the end of the explanation, he isn't even sure if he's made any sense to her at all. Admittedly, he lost himself momentarily somewhere in the middle, but—as all good performers know—the show had to go on. He couldn't deny that rambling did offer him a bit of relief either. Her continued silence rouses something in Blaine and he sits up, willing his eyes to open, and searches her face as he adds, "So that is why your theory is bullshit. Because you're not really running towards something, are you?"

He comes off sounding snarky, but she shows him her teeth in—what appears to be—a genuine smile. "Good, Blaine. Very good."

"…what?" the confusion in his voice isn't at all lost on his face as he stares at her.

"I don't want you to run away from your problems. I want you to run towards them, to face them. I want you to realize that I want to _help_ you face them, that you don't have to hide away."

"You just—you just shrinked me. That reverse psychology shit actually works," he admits with a touch of dumb wonderment underlying the foundation of his words.

She smiles politely and stands up, "I hope you don't think I was trying to trick you. But I've noticed that people love to contradict you—it lets you know how someone really feels."

He should feel betrayed, should feel angry because she was right—it had felt like a trick. But, instead, he gazes upon her with respect and the tiniest glimmer of hope.

"You did really well for our first session, Blaine. I'm proud of you. I really think we're going to get along very nicely," she opens the top right drawer of her desk and takes out an appointment reminder card. He watches as she neatly prints the date of their next session, the steady pounding in his head now a little duller, but still just as persistent. "There's something I want you to try to do by our next session, Blaine."

He stands, slowly, and stretches his back, "What?"

"I want you to write a letter to someone you want to talk to. It doesn't have to be one you plan on sending, but I want you to pick someone—address it, 'Dear whoever,' and write out something you wish you could tell them."

"Does it have to be a real person?" he plays along—with no real intention of actually adhering to her request—as he wraps a grey and red striped scarf around his neck. He grants the window one last parting look.

"It can be anyone you want. A favourite author, a friend, a relative—anyone. As long as what you're writing is honest," she crosses the room and holds the card out to him. He extends his hand to take it and the sleeve of his cardigan rides up, exposing the white bandage around his wrist. He quickly swipes the card and yanks his sleeve down, turning towards the door. "See you Thursday, Blaine."

He doesn't offer a goodbye as he rushes out of the room, cheeks flushed. He accidentally slams the door behind himself and winces, irritated with the parting goodbye that Doctor Watson's office has chosen to give him. Two days was definitely not going to be enough time to recover before their next session. He gives the card one last scornful look, shoves it into his back pocket and trudges outside to wait for someone to come and retrieve him—he has at least ten extra minutes before he can actually expect anyone. As he crosses the street to wait in a vacant park snow starts to fall and he casts the sky a single, incredulous look as though it can actually comprehend and answer him.

"Great," he mumbles and takes a seat on a swing, hoping Cooper will be the one to drive up. Blaine knows his parents would only interrogate him; at least with Cooper all he would have to endure is his older brother's incessant rambling about potential acting jobs. The responses for that were simple—smile and nod. Out of habit, he constantly checks his phone for the time and any new messages—the only thing that changes is the former. It's an hour later when Cooper finally pulls up in front of the park and Blaine stands—his joints frozen and achy—and brushes the snow off of himself as he makes his way to the car.

"How long were you waiting out there?" Cooper furrows his brows in concern.

"Not too long," Blaine responds softly. "I have such a headache though, can we keep the radio off?"

"Yeah, yeah of course," Cooper immediately punches the volume button and beautiful silence overtakes the inside of the car. Blaine pulls the passenger door shut as quietly as he can and leans his head back against the seat as he buckles himself in. He can feel Cooper's eyes on him, but if his brother has any concerns he doesn't voice them—Blaine has never appreciated Cooper's inarticulateness more. "Mom and dad aren't home, do you want to grab dinner along the way?"

Blaine closes his eyes and shakes his head. His head—his poor head!—feels so heavy and shaking it has only made him feel as though it were filled with water and he's managed to spill it all. A small moan of discomfort leaves his lips and he realizes they still aren't moving. "Coop, please just drive. I just want to go home," he begs.

"Okay, Blaine," Cooper sounds so resigned as he replies and—for once—they drive home in absolute silence.

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**So this is my way of trying to make sense of the madness that the show presented us with. This is going to be a multi-chapter fic. Please review and let me know what you think of it so far. **


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